


Blood Mark

by bittenfeld



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Blood-bonding, Cutting, Demon Blood, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Ritual, Rope Bondage, Witches Sabbath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sin Eater has separated Ichabod and Death.  But the Horseman will not be thwarted.  He will have Ichabod for his own – and nothing will stop him.</p><p>I wrote this fic a year ago, right after watching the Sin Eater episode.  So I was quite startled to see in Season 2, that their Horseman/Katrina binding ceremony nearly matched the Horseman/Ichabod scene in my story!  Ah, well, great minds think alike, I suppose…!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Mark

Ichabod is kidnapped by the Hessians and kept prisoner in a house used as a secret headquar­ters. They tell him that they are holding him for the Horseman, who has claimed Ichabod for himself and will be coming for him.

He’s being kept in a basement which has been converted into a dungeon / torture chamber. It’s a hell-hole, with chains and torture implements, jars of preserved body parts and other unidenti­fiable horrors, a pile of victims’ bones in the corner. But their leader informs Ichabod that, as much as they might like to… convince Ichabod of the, uh, error of his ways… the Horseman has expressly forbade anyone from touching him, and he’ll punish anyone who does, that Ichabod belongs to him alone.

But one man can’t resist, and one afternoon when the others have business elsewhere and leave him in charge, he decides to have a little fun with the prisoner – after all, one little taste won’t deprive the Horseman, and anyway, how would he find out? – Ichabod certainly isn’t going to tell anyone. With Ichabod tied face-up on a bed, there’s enough play in the ropes tying his ankles that that man is able to get his knees up a little and get into him. There’s nothing Ichabod can do to stop him, so he just fixes his gaze over the man’s shoulder, grips the edge of the mattress with tight fin­gers, and endures. The man takes his time and does it roughly. Finally when he’s finished, and is putting himself away, he smirks that Ichabod probably even liked it – he certainly didn’t even try to struggle. Coolly Ichabod merely retorts, “I would not be one to deny a condemned man his last plea­sure.” The man doesn’t know what he’s talking about, until he gets an uneasy feeling and turns his head. There, standing behind his shoulder, where Ichabod was staring all along, is the Horseman. In shock the man tries to stutter an apology, but before he can even get the words out, the axe falls.

For a lingering moment the Horseman faces Ichabod, and Ichabod watches him levelly, ex­pecting that the Horseman has come for him now; expecting to either be raped again or killed him­self, yet refusing to beg regardless. But then the Horseman just turns and strides out, leaving Ichabod untouched but still a prisoner.  
~ ~ ~

When the other men return, they find their comrade’s decapitated body on the floor near Icha­bod’s bed. And they are furious. And scared. Ichabod’s clothing is still in disarray, so it’s pretty obvious what happened.

Ichabod taunts them, “It appears your colleague has changed the rules of the game. What do you intend to do with me now?”

One man who’s more or less in charge, responds, “You will at least be allowed to wash up and re-dress.” He has them release Ichabod’s bonds, then orders another man, “Heinrich, keep an eye on him.”

Sitting up on the edge of the bed and rubbing his wrists, Ichabod raises a cool eyebrow, “I’m sure Heinrich will enjoy watching my ablutions. Though I hope you can control yourself and keep your hands to yourself.”

Heinrich just looks disgusted. “I should like to strike you for that remark, Herr Crane.”

“I’m sure you would. Though I suspect the Horseman might find offense in that as well.”

“I am certain he would,” Heinrich agrees, escorting Ichabod to the bathroom.

* * * * *

Later, in a miracle, four women descend on the house and rescue Ichabod. At the words of a spell, the doors fly open, and the women march in purposefully. Obviously they’re witches. The men inside start from their seats to stop them. Sharp words are exchanged (in German), like “what are you doing here? you have no business here,” etc.

But then another spell with the women directing their powers with hands outstretched toward the men, petrifies the Hessians in their tracks. Another word opens the basement door, then the women enter. Ichabod’s chains fall away, then the woman in charge urges him to come with them. Ichabod is grateful for the rescue – he asks if they are from Katrina’s coven, the Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart. The woman says they are here to take him away from here, and to come with them quickly. As he follows them up the stairs and through the house, he can see that the men are fully alert – Ichabod can see their eyes move frantically, but otherwise their bodies are completely para­lyzed – there is no way they can interrupt the rescue.

And then as Ichabod hurries out of the house, suddenly there is the whooshing sound of flames behind him, and he turns in horror to see that each of the men are flashing into living torches, unable to move or even scream, as they incinerate. At the same moment, Ichabod suddenly goes limp, not petrified like the others, but too limp to support his own weight. “What… are you… doing?” he breathes, as he is hustled into the back seat of a car. The woman in charge and another get in on either side of him, while the other two get in the front seat. As they drive off, Ichabod looks back to see the whole house burst into flames. And he wonders what he’s fallen into. He’s horrified, unwilling to believe that Katrina’s coven would do anything so diabolical – as terrible as the Hessians were – as to burn the men alive helplessly. But then he realizes he knows of another who would have no compunction at all. “Who are you?” he demands. And the woman beside him confirms his guess. “I am the High Priestess of the coven of Serilda of Abadon, The Order of the Blood Moon. _We_ are holding you for the Horseman now.”

Ichabod is in horrific shock. “But… those men were holding me for him… and are not the Hessians your allies?”

“They disobeyed the Horseman’s orders.”

“One man disobeyed,” Ichabod acknowledges, still in confusion, “and the Horseman … dealt with him.”

But the priestess merely replies, “If one fails in his duty, then they have all failed. The Horse­man has chosen to charge us instead with your care, and also to deliver their punishment.”

“And am I safer with you?” he retorts coldly. “I trust you will not… fail in _your_ duty?”

“If you are suggesting that we will fall helplessly for your masculine charms, please rest assured that I and my sisters are far beyond such meager urgings of the flesh.” She smiles coolly. “You should feel flattered, Mr. Crane, that you are more desired by the Horseman than any of us who serve him. If we fail him, I assure you, because of our… special positions… our punishment at his hands will be far worse than what you just witnessed.”

“I have no desire to be the recipient of his attentions; however, have you considered that per­haps he prefers the company of one who dares to face him, rather than those multitudes mewling obsequiously at his boots. Tell me, why, if he could do you so much harm, do you choose to do his bidding?   What has he or Moloch promised you that you should submit your souls to them?”

“After the Apocalypse, when Moloch rules with the Four Horsemen beside him, and weak putrid humanity is subjugated, those faithful who have served well, will be given a portion of the spoils to have dominion over.”

“And you believe that? Do you truly believe that either Moloch or the Horseman will keep their word to you?”

But she merely counters, “You would do well to consider your own fate, Mr. Crane, rather than conscientiously concerning yourself with ours. At any rate, you would have eventually been handed over to us anyway for the ritual to be enacted.”

“What ritual?”

“The blood-conjoining. On the night of the next full moon, the Blood Moon, at midnight, he shall claim you.”

“And what if I don’t wish to be claimed? Will he kill me? will you?”

“Your wishes are of no concern to him. And you needn’t trouble yourself with concerns of your own death. Of course, I am not privy to his plans; however, it would seem to me, he chooses to keep you alive. He would gain nothing by ending your life abruptly, since his desire is to keep you with him.”

* * * * *

At the full moon, they prepare him for the ritual. In the middle of a clearing surrounded by stands of oak, a circle is drawn and marked mystically. In the center, Ichabod is dropped to his knees. Arms are outstretched and wrists bound to two short posts on either side. He has been stripped of his shirt, and his trousers unfastened. It’s a chill October night, yet he finds that he is sweating. Somehow the witches’ energy has raised the temperature within the circle, not to mention his own anxiety is making him sweat.

One of witches kneeling behind him tangles her fingers in his long hair to hold him for the high priestess.

The priestess stands before him, athame in hand. “You were able to break the curse before because although your blood had commingled, it was only upon the ground, and did not touch the flesh of either of you. But he will make you his tonight… the blood of your flesh shall conjoin – and this spell you shall never break, Ichabod Crane. You will belong to the Horseman for all eternity.”

His bodily fluids, which they had collected before, she now smears on his face and throat and chest.

“By sweat and seed, by tears and blood, your soul shall belong to him forever.”

Then into the skin of his chest the high priestess carves a sigil with her athame, designing it over the thick scar memento of the Horseman’s deadly slash. Ichabod jerks with the sharp pain and gasps. He tries not to cry out, but can’t prevent noises escaping clenched teeth. His fingers clutch the posts. He writhes, but the witch kneeling behind him only tightens her grip in his hair and jerks his head back harder to hold him steady.

In the torchlight, beads of red blood well along the cut, rubies to decorate the unholy design, then dribble in rivulets down his skin to soak into the opened material of his trousers. “The scent of your blood shall draw Death here to you... and he shall claim you as his own.”

The ritual continues, the women dancing, circling him, as he waits helplessly, a sacrificial victim. Hours pass, and at each eighth of the moon’s arc, the high priestess retraces the sigil in his flesh, keeping the wound open and the blood welling. Until midnight, when the full moon rises to its zenith, from the distance, galloping hoofbeats approach. Pale horse and red-coated rider gallop into the ceremonial area. Then swinging out of the saddle, the Horseman strides toward the circle which parts obediently for him. Brusquely he approaches the bound form in the center. Holding his gaze steady, Ichabod’s eyes are tight with pain, but he refuses to show any fear.

As the Horseman reaches out his left hand, the high priestess obediently places her athame in his hand. Then raising his right hand, he slowly, deliberately draws the blade across his open palm, slicing a line that wells black blood. Drops fall to the ground which expand into damp black patches in the desecrated earth. He holds out his bloody hand for Ichabod to view, and now Ichabod can’t hold back his fear – this foul ritual which will rend his soul.

Then reaching for the helpless bound form, the Horseman presses his wounded hand directly to the bloody sigil in Ichabod’s flesh. Ichabod yells, and tries to pull back, but the Horseman drops to spread knees on either side of Ichabod’s knees, then grips a fistful of hair to jerk his head back, hold­ing him tight, then forces their wounds hard together, both of which bleeding more than would be natural. Mingled black and red blood trickles down Ichabod’s chest and belly, runs down the Horse­man’s arm beneath the ruffled cuff of his uniform blouse and coat sleeve. Ichabod’s feels hotter than normal, while the Horseman’s runs deathly cold.

As their blood conjoins, the evil essence works its way into Ichabod, even as he fights with all his might to hold it at bay. But it seeps past his guard, violating him deeply, as ghastly images fill his mind.

He screams.  
~ ~ ~

– and jerks awake in his own bed in Abbie’s house. Heart pounding, breath trembling, he tears off the blankets, then races into the bathroom and snaps on the light. But in the mirror he sees only his bare chest, clean and unmarked, save for the old axe scar. Still, it seemed so real, that it takes a long while for the trembling to ease.

At breakfast, he tells Abbie about it, he’s losing track of what’s real and what’s a dream. He asks if his kidnapping by the Hessians was real. She assures him yes, that really happened.

“Then who rescued me? The Coven of Serilda of Abadon?”

“No, it was Captain Irving and the SWAT team, don’t you remember? And I was there too – I came just as fast as I could. Don’t you remember the SWAT team breaking down the basement door, and finding you in that… dungeon?” She shudders herself at the memory of the room of horrors, and can hardly say the word.

“Y… yes…” he admits truthfully, yet wishing at the same time that the memory of coven didn’t seem just as real.

“Why would you feel that Serilda’s coven would rescue you? They’re on the same side as the Hessians.”

“To sacrifice me to the Horseman.”

“But that isn’t what happened, Ichabod. You do know that, don’t you?”

“… yes…” he agrees hesitantly, then suddenly insists, “And the fire – there was a fire?”

“Yes – we barely made it out in time. The fire department figures there were probably flam­mable chemicals stored in the house, and all the gunfire must have set them off. The house turned into an inferno in less than a minute.”

“And none of the Hessians made it out?”

“No, Ichabod, they didn’t. The fire was too intense, rescue crews couldn’t get in to save them.”

“No,” Ichabod refutes adamantly.

“No…?” she echoes in puzzlement. “What… do you mean?”

Ichabod shakes his head resolutely. “No. That isn’t what happened.”

“Ichabod, I was there.”

“Those men were burned to death by Serilda’s coven. _I_ was there.”

* * * * *

Later, Ichabod goes into the bathroom to shower.

Suddenly Abbie hears him yell, then a crash and a body falling to the floor. She pounds on the door, calling to him, asking if he’s okay, then tries the doorknob and finds it unlocked. He’s on the floor on his rear, undressed, tumbled back between the toilet and the bathtub. The clothes hamper has been knocked over.

“What happened?” she insists urgently. “Are you hurt?”

Frantic eyes meet hers, and all he blurts out is, “It _is_ real!”

“What?” she asks, confused. Then seeing odd dark marks on his chest, she frowns and peers closer. And sees what looks like a handprint and fingerprints splayed across his skin, as though a hand had been pressed to his chest, hard enough to bruise. “Ohmygod, what is that?”

“It is… _his_ mark.” Ichabod shudders. “I… saw it in the mirror just now… Dear god, it was not a dream. The coven really took me… and gave me to him…!”

She’s staring at the strange marks, hardly daring to believe the evidence before her eyes. “But that’s impossible. I was there – with a ton of police and fire personnel. Ichabod, there was no coven – no witches. The paramedics took you to the hospital, and I went with you. And after you were re­leased, I brought you home. You were never alone. No one else could have taken you anywhere.”

Still Ichabod can’t stop shuddering, and amends enigmatically, “I wonder if perhaps both sequences of events might have occurred. Since my resurrection, my reality has not been as … stable as it once was…”

Abbie helps him up to sit on the toilet lid, gets him a robe to cover up. She wants the depart­ment medical staff to see the marks. But he insists, “It is not a doctor I need – it’s a priest… No – what I require… is a witch. I only wish we knew how to make contact with Katrina’s coven.” 

* * * * *


End file.
